Saturday, August 25, 2012

lascivious creep

The climate became so insidiously hot - I awoke in a pool of
sweat. Fan didn’t work - spins, but don’t work. I prepared a cup of joe and
watched the morning news. Clicked on the laptop and pounded out more prose on
another damned manuscript that no one will ever read.

The day passed and as the sun boiled below the horizon,
Oscar asked, “You want to go to Pronaf? I was invited to meet some friends
there at a club.”

“Pronaf?” I asked.

“It’s the high-end of Juárez, very nice.” He smiled.

“Juárez has a high-end?” I uttered.

First, we took a cab to Pockets - a swanky, billiards pub
that reminded me of any straight poolhall Stateside. Hi-fives and back slapping
amongst the boys and bored, twinkling smiles of their girls. Bad service from
the sullen, arrogant waiters, so onward to a massive, barn-like dance club
called Ole! Ole!

Ten peso caguamas and good music. Oscar and I sat in the VIP
section and attempted to work off a bottle of whiskey that I had purchased.

However, it was too big for the both of us. Luckily, a few
of Oscar’s friends began to filter in and the time spent was a drunken spree of
laughs and dancing.

There were two, young Mexican men in t-shirts and plaid,
summer shorts. They introduced themselves as Miguel and Peter. Obviously, their
parents had money and I had no idea how they knew Oscar. Perhaps, they had
bought dope from him or hired him for sexual favors – it remained a mystery.

With them were three girls – pretty in jeans and shirts that
accented their curves. They introduced themselves, but I didn’t care to
remember their names.

I tell you, with these Mexican nationals, the alcohol really
brought out the fag in them. The two Abercrombie and Fitch clones, Miguel and
Peter, began their moves on the only American in the joint as Oscar cruised the
local ladies. More hotties began talking with me in the usual coy, macho way
and I just thought how much I loved this country.

I broke away from this reverie to stumble into a corner to
find Oscar surrounded by a small group of friends.

He held a forty ounce bottle of beer up to his mouth with
three queens chanting, “Chug it! Chug it!”

When he finished the bottle off, they all laughed and patted
him on the back.

“Damn!” I chuckled, “Let’s get that boy another!”

The group – headed by a squinty-eyed, nelly queer - regarded
me like I was carrying the plague, turned to Oscar and continued their party.

A small, pretty girl sided up to Oscar and put her arm
around his waist. I stood there in uncomfortable silence as they kissed like
overheated monkeys.

“Want another, Oscar?” I blurted as I held up the empty
bottle.

He ignored me and shuffled drunkenly off into the murk,
accompanied by another girl and the pinch-faced fag. The others turned and
disbanded. I returned to our table and sloshed more tequila into my glass.

As all good things, the joint closed and shit faced as all
get out, Oscar and I hitched a ride with a chunky broad that he had met – we
sped rapidly to his apartment in the dark barrios of the poor and
underprivileged.

The car pulled up to a row house in a dark, shabby
neighborhood. Oscar and I got out of the car. As I tittered on the side walk,
my friend leaned into the window of the car.

“So, you wanna come in and party?” He slurred.

The girl just smiled big, said something like no and drove
off into the darkness.

Oscar stood there, scowling, then uttered, “Pinche puta.”

Unlocking the door, we entered his small, dingy apartment. A
large, sagging bed took up most of the room, dirty clothes flung about,
cigarettes squashed on the dusty tile. There was no kitchen and the bathroom
was outside - shared with the other tenants. I gazed up and the rotted, wooden
rafters were exposed; covered in a botanical garden of black mold. The smell of
mildew and dusty clothes wafted in the pink painted room.

Grabbing my hand, Oscar flung me to the bed and kissed with
such passion that it hurt. Clothes were ripped off and tossed about, erections
exposed and then Oscar passed out.

I lay next to that naked Adonis, as he snored ever so
lightly, and myself wrapped in frustrated passion.

Ah, what the hell, I thought. I ain’t no lascivious creep.

I put my arm around him and dozed myself.

Around 5am, I was awoken by Oscar’s half-assed and sloppy
attempt to make out. He quickly fell back in with Morpheus.

I was fully awaken by that fumble and couldn’t fall back
asleep. I lay there in the darkness - pent up, angered in frustration - I
dressed, and quietly left the building.

Stumbling home in the gray dawn of painful
post-intoxication, I crawled into my own bed inhabited by lonesome ghosts and
passed out.

That afternoon, I spent some time alone at The Yankee Bar -
a convenient, straight dive around the corner from my place on the strip.

I sat and thought of Oscar and my blossoming affection for
him. I truly did love him. A love that seemed unbearably one sided. It angered
me more - I appeared to be wasting my time and money on a fruitless romance.
Again.

I sat pensive at the bar, staring at the bottle of Indio
beer, slowly peeling the label from the moist glass. Sourly ignoring the
Mexican love ballad that crooned from the jukebox, the happy laughter from a
group of locals that congregated in a corner booth.

I gazed out the dusty window, dead flies on the sill. What
do you do in life when you have no goal - no direction? I am not speaking in a
destructive kind of way - just in a free kind of way without malice.

I walked out of the bar and headed to the Cathedral.

Strolling around the congested masses, my name was called
and I looked to see Oscar sitting on the steps. I walked over.

“Hi, Oscar.” I said flatly.

He smiled, “Hola, amigo. This is my friend, Zelma.”

Oscar motioned to a young girl who squatted in a catholic
school uniform next to him on the gray, stone steps.

I shook her hand, “Hello.”

“Hola.” She beamed. “Mucho gusto.”

As I sat next to Oscar, he mumbled hesitantly, “You are not
angry with me? I woke up and you were gone. I thought you were mad on account
of the girls.”

He referred to his complete dismissal of me at the dance
club as he chased skirt.

I smiled, “Nah, I’m not one of those bitter fags to hold a
grudge - life is too short and fun for that shit.”

We three sat on the steps of the Cathedral, ate ice cream
and joked and laughed. All the while, I received suspicious glances from Zelma
when I would make an odd, gay remark. I simply ignored her and reveled in her
discomfort.

“Hey.” Oscar started, “You want to take a walk through the
market?”

Zelma stared blankly at me - I could see the unwanted look
for my company in her eyes.

I sighed and looked off into the hustling masses, “No, Oscar
- I gotta take a rain check. Anyways, I have some things to work on at home.”

I wanted to return home and write my depression away. Saying
goodbye to Oscar and Zelma, I walked into the scorching afternoon sun to do
what I had to do...and I did.

My published works: (Also available on Kindle)

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Of Men and Maggots

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A hellish report of postmodern schizophrenia....click on the cover and buy a copy today!

Dark is the Night

A raw and gritty book concerning life's outcasts. Click onto the picture and purchase a copy today from the publisher's secure e-store!

Puta

Fractured romance south of the border. Click the thumbnail and buy a copy today!

Class Conscious Poetry.

Crazy, insane madness - set to verse! You can purchase a copy at the publishers estore by clicking on the pic!

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